Threads of Blood
by prinzenhasserin
Summary: Inspired by Bloody Skies by Toki Mirage, this is about Yalmireth, a magical demon who struggles with his studies, unrequited love, and being in a school with a bunch of other creatures that are just as weird as he is. Featuring: magical science, panic attacks, weird origin stories for demons, gay love


**Notes:** In case it wasn't clear enough, this is fanfiction of another fanfiction. It is uploaded with permission of the author, and you can find it by typing Bloody Skies by Toki Mirage into your search bar, or with the story id: 2816397.

I wrote this for myself a long time ago, mainly because Bloody Skies helped me through my High School years, and while I admire the author greatly for the huge amount of characters and setting and backstory, the ending was rather abrupt and left a few plot strings hanging.  
You won't be able to follow without having read 'Bloody Skies' first, and I'm posting here mainly for archive purposes.

* * *

 **Threads of Blood (A Bloody Skies fanfic)**

The Shikaan Institute of Higher Learning was founded on a dimensional rift on the power of souls. No sentient beings were sacrificed on its conception, although it has long been said that every death occurring on school property was added to the wards — due to the nature of the school those have been plenty.

It was designed both to be an epicentre of magic, and to grow into it on a bigger scale. The school collects the souls of those studying there in an event horizon of power, to be evenly distributed among the wards. Later on, Shikaan became its own dimension, an enclave of powerful magic.

The line of Pyrneihm has been bound to that congregation of power, as a last defence against the maximum credible accident.

The burden of that has fallen to demons of that line, mostly those of non-entity, those that cannot be contained by rituals and often need their own dimension to even exist.

Yalmireth Pyrneihm was an accident. This was universally decided to be unfortunate, even though his parents disagreed, but a colossal accident nonetheless. Then, when Yalmireth's father sacrificed himself during the riots of the second occupation for the survival of Shikaan, the anchorage to the leylines transferred to a barely teen-aged Yalmireth.

First, he was hidden in powerful rituals, and when general consensus declared that the ward seemed stable enough, he was made to develop his demon nature into something "worth" the power.

Maybe it's his upbringing, but he loses first the respect of his peers and then his magic sensitivity and ability to sense the wards.

Because the finest minds in demonology cannot find a problem, they send him to school. There his life really starts to suck.

What he hangs on to from his earliest days is his curiosity, his sense of right and wrong, and the inability to give something up when he is supposed to. The wards never shift to someone further down the line.

oOoOo

His first year at Shikaan is a disaster.

"I'm Healer Svea," he hears after he miraculously wakes up after a bloodletting. "Before you die, here's a list of potions you are going to brew for me. I heard you were moderately talented. If you are not, the next time you're injured and can't heal, I'm going to let you die."

He gets excellent at potions rather quickly, but every incident is swept under the rug because it might disrupt the neutral zone agreement between vamps and demons.

Yalmireth goes for a course in cultural studies and diplomacy at the advice of Healer Svea. With the headmistress help he creates a mirror that bounces of the wards onto a second designated person (the headmistress) and halves the burden of the wards.

That potions lab develops into his sanctuary. Professor Lightbody, a fey with the strange natural inclination towards solitude, is the best lab partner he can wish for, but he doesn't find himself until Cyrus Obsidian starts attending.

Then, of course, he's all over the place, all of the time.

oOoOo

"This is so fucked up," Xanthir tells the world while he's mangling a ball of yarn into the approximate shape of a scarf. He's failing on four different levels, and Yalmireth is eyeing the instructions, while Tara is snickering into her book. Cyrus is stone-walling the entire group, but he's also not doing anything. "I bet you could make anything out of string. Look at it, it's got ears."

The supposedly-a-scarf does have ears. It also has crazy loops that makes it look like a spine, and for some reason a design pattern that looks like a runic sphere.

oOoOo

This is where his theory is born, but first he gets his heart broken by Cyrus' invoking the garvich taneshka. His own fault really, since people generally didn't like their significant other's fault's pointed out.

To distract himself from not having friends again, he plays around with duplicating the effects of runic spheres with yarn. With Professor Lightbody's help he infuses yarn with magic, and creates little yarn spheres that explode upon touch.

He's pretty proud of himself, between despairing of never having friends again and the occasional nervous break-down of being the only demon failing Battle Magics.

Then, he finds out he fell for the greatest cultural misunderstanding of all times, and suddenly the inspiration for his yarn balls flood in — strings of magic, to reconnect anyone to the magic thus negating the need for magic sensitivity.

For one time accidentally exploding the lab, Professor Lightbody makes him teach the potion's freshmen. It's a miracle most of them survive into second year, because neither can they grasp lab-safety ("For the third time, protect your kettle like a newborn baby, and no, it's never prudent to shake either,") nor the fact that yes, he is still a student.

oOoOo

A few weeks later, when he learns of Cyrus' utter ineptitude towards remembering basic facts about other cultures, and regains some semblance of his friendship back, he starts working on his red strings of fate again. (Professir Lightbody had taken to calling them that, with the not-really-supportive addendum: "You are probably going to spend your lifetime researching that." Given that his life-time was, well, near immortality, it wasn't exactly encouraging.)

He also starts to look into human courtship rituals, especially compared to demon courtship rituals, but he doesn't seem to have any luck: Cyrus seems to be about as clueless on his own culture, as well as everyone else's. On one hand, that doesn't make it better — on the other, at least Yalmireth is now sure it isn't about him personally.

oOoOo

He's in the headmistress' office to pitch his idea. This makes him uncomfortable in many ways, not least because it feels like he's done something wrong. He knows he hasn't, but the feeling isn't entirely rational.

Also, it may be exasperated by the impressions of the wards due to the many students who did do something wrong. He may be imagining the pretty strong impression of Cyrus on this very chair. It's not a particularly comforting thought. Nothing about Cyrus is particularly comforting.

And yet…

The Headmistress is staring at him. She's a vision as always, strong, undeniably female, and incredibly colourful. It's terribly depressing to look at her — his hair is grey, and so is his skin, and his wings and his eyes. Basically, he looks like a gargoyle on a good day.

He fidgets. He can't help it.

Finally, she raises her eyebrows and asks him: "Professor Lightbody said you wanted to make your proposal for your master's thesis."

Oh, it was him who was supposed to speak first?

Blast. "Erm. Yes. That," he stutters nervously. He breathes out. There is absolutely no reason to be this nervous, and he already practised the proposal. In his head, but still. He would have appreciated more time to prepare, would have liked for Professor Lightbody to let him have a few hours to flesh out his thoughts some more, but apparently what he already managed was "impressive" and "revolutionary".

Nothing he ever does is revolutionary, besides fucking up spectacularly — which still can happen.

"So. You know Cyrus Obsidian, right?", he says finally, and anxiously scrubs through his hair. "He's this human, but his magic is pretty unique. I don't know how far into theory…" he looks at the headmistress and she seems to listen pretty intensely for someone subjected to his stuttery stream of thoughts. "Since the commonly accepted theory about magic, in magical bodies there must always be a void in contrast to the magic (of equal proportion to each other), seems to be defunct when it comes to Cyrus and how he transfers healing magic devoid of anything human, the theory seem unsubstantiated. But his magic has an unusual high concentration much more so than even mine, so I tried recreating the effect with different porous material. It came out in threads."

He takes the case he brought along and dumps it onto the desk. When he opens it carefully, creepy red light seeps out. Inside the case there are seven different clumps of various balls of threads, some of them glow. He points to the one not glowing. "These retain magic with void. It can't be reabsorbed by people other than me. Just like magic sponges usually work. Obviously a failure. But then I tried infusing the threads not with external, but internal magic." He points to the brightest one. "I used blood first, and now it not only gives out a constant stream of warmth, but also voidless magic. I tried again with spit, more blood, less blood, but I don't have a working hypothesis on why it works and how to limit the retention."

"Huh.", the Headmistress says, and touches on of the orbs with her long fingers. Her nails look like the claws of the big cat slouching next to the window. "I'm impressed."

"I haven't even shown you what it does," he tells her, "because that's impressive!"

He takes out his favourite ball of blood thread. Unsurprisingly it's been made with a vial of Cyrus' blood — it reacts best to his own magic. He forms the string into a lasso, and the contact with his own magic rends it sort of see-through. He comments, "I also can't seem to find a theory why the string might turn invisible."

"A sympathetic ritual maybe?"

He shrugs, and throws the lasso over the paper wight on the headmistress' desk and manipulates it like a puppet dancer.

"Can you throw it?" she asks.

Yalmireth proceeds to throw the paper weight against the wall. With a crash the paper weight falls down, but not before leaving a crater in the thick stone walls reinforced by magic.

"Impressive," she repeats, "truly remarkable."

Yalmireth swallows. HM Kyranes is intimidating at the best of times — she smells like danger. If she's really impressed— "I need funding for a study group," he says, and suddenly he is not nervous at all. "I would like test persons of different magical ability. And, you know, race, maybe alignment. Diversity. I would also like to inform Cyrus…"

He drifts off. The Headmistress isn't so fucking dense as Cyrus, so he probably doesn't have to talk about how he thinks Cyrus might take offence, because something bad happened to him, and this might seem like taking away agency from Cyrus himself.

Yalmireth doesn't let himself think about it, but he is going to be so screwed up, if Cyrus stops talking to him again.

The Headmistress is looking at him strangely sympathetic. He must look pretty bad off.

"This is an excellent research opportunity, and I'm going to personally make sure to send some donations your way. If your theory is sound, and it seems that way, this could be the start of a whole new branch of magic. Didn't I tell you, Yal — when you came to beg me to let you out of your inheritance ritual? Shiikan doesn't produce monsters: It creates opportunities to survive."

She looks at him, and maybe it's true. Maybe he has found his place, and his courage, and his soul. But maybe, it's going to break him into tinier pieces, swallow him whole, ruin him completely.

Maybe he's being hormonal, and over-dramatic.

See, the thing is,Yalmireth is the heir to the realm of Shiikan in the most literal sense. This is the start and end of all his problems, because his sire — well, let's explain it this way. Yalmireth is a magical demon construct, sort of like a clone, but entirely unlike, because he has been created out of different genetic material.

He's special. He was supposed to be just an assistant, probably, at least that's what he guesses from knowing his genes and his particular skill-set.

He's not a very good combatant, he can't heal but through the usual way, his wandless magic sucks, he's not talented in the usual demon magic, and he's sort of a freak.

On the other hand, there is that passion for history, his fascination with other cultures. He isn't all that bad at inventing stuff either — and it's weird to morph his whole livelihood after a single person, not to mention pretty creepy, but even if Cyrus is never going to look at him like someone that has his shit together, creating something new out of Cyrus and himself — no, definitely still creepy.

Why is he even thinking like that! It's demeaning, and he'd rather think about anything else.

oOoOo

On his way to the library, the wards ping at him and he diverts his way through the main hall, but it's not necessary.

He sees that first year human with the turquoise undercut, but she has the attacking vampire by the throat already. He just hears a sweet soft voice going, "I woke up in a pool of blood today, and I'm so sick of you — would you like ending the day in a pool of yours?"

He takes a sniff, and sniggers, because this threat is almost poetry and leaves the girl be. She's probably better of without his dubious protection. Doesn't need it anyway.

The next person to halt his way is much less lovely. It's a 7th year student he's seen hanging around the potions lab. "I've smelled your blood," she tells him. He must seem slightly taken aback, because she adds, "You were working on some kind of project in the lab? Anyway, the blood you're using, where did you get that? It's pretty potent and I need a new donor."

He has been privy to quite a few scenes about that kind of blood. (Cyrus is a yummy treat.) And he's seen the reaction these kind of questions evoke. Also, what kind of reason is that to accost somebody in the hallway. How did she even get to stay here this long?

"Go fuck yourself," he says, and even while he's saying it, he's baffled at his own vehemence.

"Ugh, touchy," she smiles to show her teeth.

Yalmireth, whose related to a fucking creature of the fucking void, stares at her incredulously. He's not all that capable fighting — especially the sort of parcours their Battle professor likes to run — he's not one to engage his enemies on frontal attacks, play smarter not harder, that's alway been his philosophy, wonders how she thinks that's going to work with a demon hybrid creature. In quite the rude gesture, he hisses back — with that tiny little pitch that goes into sensitive vamp ears like a bat to a window.

She recoils.

"What's going on here?" A voice asks from behind him and there's Tara.

His smile is probably still a bit to wide and full of teeth — she's looking at him like she's seeing him for the very first time, and they are starting to attract the crowd. He tried so hard to avoid catching the interest of the general population. Not one for outright confrontation, which was what defined his legacy, apparently.

"Somebody trying to claim your blood source," he says a bit louder than usual. Immediately, a circle forms around them. There is probably some sort of telepathic news circle that gives out location and reason for a fight. "I objected rather rudely, I admit. I was immersed in the project for my master's thesis."

She has the other vamp by the neck in three short motions, and is drinking rather aggressively by the time the ring has formed completely. There's a disappointed murmur, and the crowd disperses.

"Not even worth it," she says, and drops the vamp on the floor in a heap. "Wonder how she even survived this long."

Yalmireth thinks he remembers her for some really violent poisonings, but thinks better of saying anything. He's thinking the same anyhow.

"So you are doing your masters already?" Tara asks, and moves surreptitiously to the library.

He shrugs. "How's Xanthir? Is he getting used to his new legs?"

She grins at him: "He still blames the underdeveloped muscles for not winning the battle magic parcour."

Yalmireth winces - he's still not sure he didn't fail that one. Tara seems to notice and laughs at him. "You must really suck," she says without malice.

"Hey, I have an idea!" She says. "You have wings, right? Cyrus needs someone to train with."

"Uhh," says Yalmireth whose general ability in the air can be summed up with he's as graceful as a dying swan, "I think he's way better already?"

"You have seen him since he came back?"

Yalmireth, not convinced that admitting to stalking Professor Yankovich office (and getting an eyefull more than he wanted of his relationship with Rivehn) is the best idea, just nodds.

"Wow," Tara says, "you've been the busiest I ever saw you. Terrified of graduating?"

Yalmireth shrugs. He is, especially because he's still failing Battle Magics, and it's a mandatory course, but he's arranged himself with it all — at least Shikaan taught him not to admit to his failings, many that they are.

"So. Your master's thesis. Anything I'd like?"

"Remember when you loaned me your muggle physics books, because you laughed so much about their theories of alternate dimensions?"

Tara nods.

"When Cyrus tried to teach me wandless magic, he did something weird." Ignoring the exasperated exclamation of Tara, "When does he not!" he continues, "I felt like a puppet — and with a little help from his blood, I developed a string theory? But with magic. I'm preliminarily calling it string magic, but you know — it's open ended."

Tara's mouth opens, and then closes.

He watches her and feels faint satisfaction creep up — he's barely a teen, they are going to eat their words (and some hopefully their minds and hearts, but he's not going to be bloodthirsty).

"It's going to be revolutionary," he says with a small smile, and opens the doors to the library.

oOoOo

The library of Shikaan has always been his favourite place. It was light and airy, and mystic and dark in equal measures, just like Shikaan itself. The book shelves are made out of a dark red wood, fashioned out of the woods that grow just outside the main school building, and the smell of fresh wood remains after the millennia the library has been standing. It's a great example of magical architecture, even without counting the top shelves, which regrow into branches and leafs.

But today he doesn't look into the arches of wood and the canopy of leaves that make up the ceiling — Tara has found her voice again, and uses the full extent of it much to the chagrin of Yalmireth (and the other students using the library for it's intended use, and not as a cesspool of gossip, shame on you Tara)

She is currently expounding that of course she always knew that Yalmireth was smart and had to be capable of something. This is interspaced with the usual reminders that he's way too bitchy, and punches like a girl, and you know what? Yalmireth finds he does have a spine.

"With the way you're going on about girls, you'd think you weren't one." He says mildly. He never minds, demons don't have genders, and anyway, he's a constructed clone (who is going to revolutionise magic, holy shit, he's going to revolutionise magic!) what's he to know about gender anyway. He was made out of belief, and magic.

She splutters, "It's a metaphor!"

"What's a metaphor, when it doesn't work!"

She turns around, and hits him (her hit is flinch-worthy, so he does), "It's…" she waves her hands, as if that makes it clearer, "… an expression. A rhetoric device! It's called a dissimile!"

"There is no such thing as a dissimile," Yalmireth says. He's reasonably sure about that, but the next time he will think to check, Tara may already have altered at least one dictionary.

A voice from behind him asks, "What's no such thing?"

Yalmireth turns around hastily, and has to swallow. There is Cyrus, and why, why did the idiot have to grow wings — life is unfair. Even as he's utterly distracted by the fine texture, and the way the wings extenuate his eyes (For fuck's sake, he isn't a fucking poet.)

"Hey," he says huskily into Tara's wall of words about his master thesis. "Long time no see."

He can't help his voice. It'S embarassing, and he wants to be swallowed by the ground. He doesn't wish to hard, because that could be possible now that his bond to Shikaan might grow.

Cyrus does an inexpressive nod, and says "Hey yourself. What's that I hear about a master thesis? I didn't know you where that far ahead of me."

Yalmireth clears his throat. "About that…"

"What, are you going to tell me it was all a hoax to get close to me?"

"No, not exactly. Well. I really am a failure in … you know, the usual qualifications. But that's not…Remember when you where in hospital, and Healer Svea made you bleed. I had requested a vial, oh god, this is going worse. Let me show you?"

He watches in trepidation as Cyrus face gets dark, but he doesn not say anything yet, which he is glad for, really. He leads them to a private study hall, and then opens the bag.

oOoOo

He likes to impress Cyrus, he notes on the way to Professor Lightbody to consult with the Healer. He'd like to test other donated blood on compatibility with blood threads.

"Huh," Healer Svea says and looks at the diamond shaped sphere that levitates the rock, "can you do that inside a body?"

An elf he may be, but he'd seen right through the potential misuses of this completly new branch of magic.

Through tests they find out they cannot, and Svea could not manipulate the threads Yalmireth was using, nor did he show aptitude on his own. Svea was the first member of the faculty to actually try and manipulate thread the same way Yalmireth showed them, and for the first time Yalmireth realises this may not come to people as easily, maybe make them struggle as much as he did with wandless magic.

He looks down at his invention.

"Do you think your own blood might be easier?" he asks, and adds a second one, "Maybe also form threads with magic. Or with magic infused string!"

Healer Svea laughs. "I'm glad you found your calling, sprog."

Yalmireth smiles at the man who knew him since he was a little kid, and thinks he should stop avoiding the hospital wing so much.

oOoOo

He's back in his room, when suddenly his thoughts overcome him. Healer Svea made a really good point: What if his sire returns? What if his purpose was something completely different, what if he was meant to be a librarian, or a servant, or a particularly smart boy-toy.

"Are you alright?" Cyrus asks, and Yalmireth can only look at him in horror. Maybe he was only created to donate some organs — though he knows Svea can create them on their own without a conscience.

He's useless in a fight, and come on, who was he kidding, thread magic was never going to catch on. And even so, there's probably a magician in the past who created something similar, and now Yalmireth was going to plagiarize all his research without even noticing. Maybe his sire had already created string magic, and so Yalmireth would recreate something he kept private on purpose.

He'd come back and kill him, and then. He sobs.

Oh with all the love, why was he such an idiot?

"Yalmireth?!", he hears his name through a fog.

This is— he can't— this is all wrong.

"Okay," he hears, and it helps him focus, until he imagines his sire's disappointment, and he's off again. "There is only me here. Do you need a potion?"

This helps him focus, and he shakes his head. Calming potions always make him drowsy.

"Are you breathing again?"

He checks, and he's not, and so he starts counting out his breath, until his heart slows down a bit.

oOoOo

His cheeks are wet.

That's the first thing he notices. The second, he's clutching Cyrus front battle robe, and then: "I'm so sorry!" He says, almost panicking again.

"Can I touch you?" Cyrus asks.

He's probably splotchy (not a pretty crier), he's wearing his potion robes with the rabbit spleen on them, but he nods, because if Cyrus isn't running away right now, he'll take what he can get, but he's still surprised when Cyrus pulls him into a hug.

"What happened?"

"Nothing," Yalmireth lies.

"Didn't seem like nothing."

"I— it's complicated?", Yalmireth tries.

"I can swear an oath if you want me to?", Cyrus offers, and pulls him into the vee of his legs. Yalmireth feels oddly comfortable, usually he doesn't feel like touching anyone after an attack. He breathes in, and smells the usual cedar smell of Cyrus. It's earthy, and warm, and reminds him of home, even though he never had one, not really.

"Well. I'd prefer a little one? Not harsh, just a reminder not to tell?"

Without further questions, Cyrus swears, and with a flash and the accompanying smell of lightning, it's done. Yalmireth is touched.

"I'm … with demons procreation is complicated," he starts, "It's possible in different ways, but the eldritch creature that created me used the power of it's soul and diffused it with the dimension it came from. Excuse me, I don't think I am explaining this right. Demon is essentially a collective term for all sorts of … sentient creatures that don't quite fit — most of them are extra-dimensional. My sire is Shikaan. Was. He is the dimension of Shikaan and was a physical avatar of it, and he created me as an extent of himself, and also his soul. During the revolution, he sacrificed himself, so that the wards would stand, so that Shikaan would be protected — it looks like forever.

But he's not gone. We don't think so at least. Most eldritch creatures can't be killed that easily, and the headmistress just brought up the idea, that maybe I am his avatar, again. It was— it's— it's like I don't have a sense of self. It's frightening."

The dry comment of "I'd say so," helps a lot. He breathes within the arms of Cyrus.

"Excuse me, if I'm way of mark here, but Shikaan is a part of you?"

"It's sort of like siblings," Yalmireth says a turns to look at Cyrus. "Shikaan is a part of me, and I'm a part of Shikaan."

"That doesn't sound like siblings."

"No?"

They are quiet for a while, then Yalmireth starts again, "When— When my sire went, I collapsed. I don't rember much, no that's a lie. What I remember is disjointed, because the wards transferred their anchor to me. I fell into half-state, a coma if you will, because all the fucking souls were talking to e. Do you know how many souls there are anchored to the wards of Shikaan?"

"Plenty?"

"So fucking many. Every person that dies here is anchored to the original sacrifce ritual that created Shikaan's dimension. There's… a lot. Some of them are really nasty."

"That's why you don't fear the students."

"Well.", Yalmireth shrugs. "I have times of hyper-competency. Other times, I'm useless. I'm much more often uselsess."

"no you're not." Cyrus protests.

"Aww, that'S nice of you to say. But you think so, too. You didn't even try to take me along to do your Vlodemort stuff."

Cyrus splutters.

"I didn't…"

"It's okay," Yalmireth says, and grins. "I like you anyway."

"Uhh. Really?"

Yalmireth stands up, and holds his hand out, to help Cyrus up. "No way you didn't notice," he says, "What, are you still not taking that Interracial Relations class?"

"What did I miss?"

They are both standing now, and Yalmireth keeps Cyrus' hands clasped. He looks pointedly down at them, "You have a fanclub since you went out with that fairy," he tells him.

"Hey," Cyrus protests, but Yalmireth thinks that might be because he called that fairy a fairy. Because he is a fucking fairy, and he can call him that because the fucking fairy cheated on him. Cheated on Cyrus too, but Cyrus is a decent human being, while Yalmireth is a demon, and so he's got an excuse.

"I have been not so subtly pining for you," he laughs, and there is a tiny edge of hysteria in it. He can't believe Cyrus didn't notice. "Xanthir especially likes to tease me whenever you are in the vicinity. You really didn't notice?"

"No," Cyrus says and looks down on their clasped fingers. Yalmireth lets go slowly.

"Uh," Cyrus clears his throat, "I don't mind?"

yalmireth stills. The last half-hour was a roller-coaster of emotion he does not want to repeat ever again.

"Do you want to maybe go to the market on Saturday?" Cyrus asks, and Yalmireth breathes. "Nothing more. Just a trip to the market."

"I'd love to," Yalmireth says, "just a trip to the market."

And then Cyrus smiles that soft smile he used with the fucking fairy, and suddenly Yalmireth believes in miracles.

oOoOo

The market is bright with colors as always, but they seem brighter. The all encompassing smell of ginger, cinnamon and various other less distinguishable smells are somehow more intense, and the world feels like it was revolving.

Of course that could not be true, since the dimension of Shikaan and it's markets were anchored on a flat plane as far as the usual four dimensions go, but something had fundamentally changed. Yalmireth suspects it is him. He shudders a little every time Cyrus' wings graze against his. He tells himself Cyrus doesn't know what he's doing, that it's unconscious, but he's so keyed up when they finally sit down at the only café that serves their chai with cow milk (and not various other liquids of undetermined origin).

"For a long time," Cyrus says, and he re-focuses on his actual date, and not the hypothetical changes said person has on his soul and transdimensional self, " there was nothing more I wanted than to be normal, since I spent my formative years in a cupboard under the stairs."

Yalmireth, whose human culture education hasn't processed to child care, nods and in retrospect doesn't give the right value to such a confession, but asks instead: "Do you mind…" He gestures to the wings — but that doesn't include the uniqueness that is Cyrus, and so he doesn't say the words.

Cyrus shakes his head, "But I do have — Rivehn says my mind is fractured and I could basically snap at any time. You know, be triggered. Maybe die. I dunno." His wings flutter against Yalmireth's again, when he moves to let another customer through the narrow space between the most comfortable chairs in this dimension.

Yalmireth suppresses his instincts, and probably to only indication of how much he's affected are his pupils, blown wide. "Like. I don't wanna play who has the bigger issues, but I'm basically soulbonded to the world's craziest school," he says.

Cyrus laughs, Yalmireth watches and smiles, and finally gets the courage to ask, "May I touch you?"

Cyrus nods, but continues the conversation, "And of course, your sire could turn up at any time and demand your service."

Yalmireth touches his fingers. In the corner of his vision he sees Cyrus' wings twitch, and he marvels at their existence, their strength.

"Yes," Yalmireth answers, and it comes out huskily. He curls his fingers around Cyrus' and gives them a tiny kiss, to hide his embarrassment. "You could be triggered at any moment and become an avatar of god."

"Are you turned on by this?!" Cyrus asks incredulously, but continues the motion of their hands to Yalmireth's ear.

"Uh," he makes a sound that's almost a purr when he drags his nail around the tip. "Is that a trick question?"

Cyrus kisses him. Yalmireth feels a stab of delight at the sensation of heat and bliss pulsing through him. This is insane, he thinks, as all the tiny hairs on his head are prickling upwards.

"You're a bit of an idiot, Yal," he says, "I'm terrible at subtext. The best way to get me to see anything is push my face right into it."

Yalmireth who is too distracted to comment on the nickname, grabs him by the hair and drags him into the curve between neck and shoulders, and then, because he feels terribly brave, lets his fingers wander over the curves of Cyrus' wings. He shudders, and mouths against his neck.

"Why do I feel like I should hurry up to find a room?" He asks after a few minutes in which Yalmireth explores the sensitivity of the places he can reach, "I have done much more in public."

He has a brief moment where he wants to stab someone, but then takes it as the compliment it was obviously meant as, and gives another kiss to Cyrus ear.

"Am I supposed to stop?"

"No," Cyrus protests quickly. "Well. Maybe we should head back?" He doesn't do as he says and instead half-climbs into Yalmireth's chair and cups his neck. There os something strangely sensual about the way he strokes Yalmireth's hair that is so hard to resist, but they are in public, and Yalmireth is a very private person, and so they are not even close to getting thrown out of the café when the creepy stares are enough for Cyrus, but the magic that swells up between them is almost suffocating, and so they leave.

oOoOo

The first time his balls of string connect to the wards, and make them sing with power, he feels almost as elated as the first time he kisses Cyrus in front of the whole school (or at least most of it). Truth be told, as the latter happened just minutes before the former, the events are almost indistinguishable from each other, and in all certainty nothing he'd ever want to give up.

Even if his life is the school, and his school his life — should his sire ever return, it was big enough for them both.

* * *

Thanks for reading!


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